Taking Flight on Broken Wings
by Soraga
Summary: "How long does your kind live? One hundred years? Two hundred? Even if you lived a thousand years, your promise of lifelong devotion is but a whirlwind romance in the face of eternity. Will you continue, knowing that?" AU.
1. Prologue: The Execution

**A/N:** So I've actually been sitting on this idea for a while. It's...probably the result of massive amounts of caffeine and sleep deprivation, to be honest. The upcoming rework gave me that final push to sit down and write this. I do have an idea of where this story will go, but that's about it. Update schedule will be fairly irregular and pretty much depends on when I have inspiration.

On the topic of continuity, this story will be a weird disjointed mishmash of old and new lore. So basically League lore as it stands (more shots fired than an ulting Miss Fortune).

In short: don't take it too seriously. Because my ability to write romance makes Harlequin novels look like Jane Austen.

**Disclaimer:** _League of Legends_ is property of its respective owners.

**Prologue: The Execution  
**

The din of battle surrounded me: steel clashing against steel, spells sizzling against armor, the wounded and dying screaming in agony. I tuned most of it out, and the pounding of my own heart drowned out the rest. I whirled around to face the heavy footfalls approaching behind me, hands already casting and an incantation halfway recited before I had fully turned around. A sheet of flame shot forth from my hands, slamming into the enemy before they could defend themselves. They fell to the ground, screaming in agony as arcane fire consumed their flesh and boiled their blood, cooking alive as their magic-repelling armor turned against them. I turned my back to the sight of them clawing at their armor in a futile effort to rip it off, taking another step forward and staring down the approaching phalanx of angelic soldiers.

They hesitated as I glared at them, their advance faltering for the briefest of moments. I needed no further opening, swinging my arms in subdued arcs as I conjured dozens of shadowy orbs. If nothing else, I could admire their discipline: they didn't so much as flinch as I flung the first orb towards them, the knot of magic slamming into the cuirass of the knight obstructing my path and reducing his torso to a fine red mist. The remaining orbs were upon them in seconds, shattering metal and vaporizing the flesh underneath. I stepped over their mangled bodies, my attentions focused on the platform that now lay mere meters away.

Blood, some of it fresh, stained the dark stone. Her lithe body was wrapped in chains of petricite, enough to suppress even a Summoner's power and heavy enough that she struggled to even stay on her knees. A trio of Judicators loomed over her, one with a headsman's axe and the other two wielding blessed blades.

"This is the judgment of the righteous! Morgana, for your crimes, no punishment is too great!" the headsman boomed, having finally recovered from the shock of an angry Summoner teleporting in, "You are undeserving of the divinity bestowed upon you, and it is therefore forfeit!"

A red haze descended before my eyes as I saw one of the Judicators grab one of Morgana's wings, forcefully yanking it until it was fully extended. Before I could react, his companion severed the limb with a stroke of blessed blade. I resisted the urge to close my eyes as she screamed in agony and slumped to the ground. With a roar, I raised a hand and lifted the offending Judicator into the air. I could sense his fear even though a heavy helmet hid his features, and I allowed him a second to fully take stock of his situation before I balled my hand into a fist. The blood in his sword arm boiled and then exploded, sending chunks of flesh and fragments of bone flying. I made to do the same to his other arm, but a pommel strike to the back broke my concentration. I was fairly certain something inside me ruptured on impact.

I ducked under the greatsword swing, no doubt meant to take my head off, and drove a blade of arcane energy through my attacker's breastplate. He struggled weakly for several moments before I sent a pulse of magic through his body and threw him into a pack of his comrades. I whirled around on the balls of my feet and hastily threw up a barrier. The subsequent explosion nearly bowled me over, and my ears rang, but the shield held. My targets were not so lucky, and all that remained of them was a collection of scorched limbs. A second bloodcurdling scream, much weaker than the first, drew my gaze back up to the altar. I rushed forward several paces, only to be clotheslined by another yet another of the angelic knights.

I stumbled backwards, vision swimming, and recovered just in time to intercept a stab at my gut. I sheathed my fist in a protective aura and backhanded the blade, shattering it. I grabbed for the largest shard, caring little as it sliced open the flesh of my palm, and drove it into the gap between the knight's helmet and cuirass. He gurgled as he sank to his knees, clutching his slashed throat, and I looked up to see the headsman holding Morgana on all fours with an armored boot to the small of her back. A stroke of the remaining Judicator's blade, and another of her wings fell away. I watched as Morgana futilely struggled against her bonds, her efforts only earning her a swift kick to the side, and she sank to the ground once more as her breathing turned to ragged gasps.

The moment's distraction was all the enemy needed. A knight pounced on me from behind, forcing me into a chokehold as I futilely pounded at his armor. My vision was swimming, and I couldn't summon up the focus to cast another spell. Another knight approached, stopping within arm's reach and driving a gauntleted fist into my stomach. Blood mixed with the last of my breakfast as it came back up. I doubled over in pain, and the remaining knights took the opportunity to wrap my hands in petricite chains.

"Your fate shall be the same as all those who consort with sinners," the headsman taunted, "But first, you shall bear witness."

A swift kick sent me flying forward, and I hit the ground hard. A hand seized the back of my robes, dragging me the last several meters towards the altar. I grit my teeth, biting my tongue to keep myself from crying out as a knee sank into my back and another grabbed my hair and wrenched my head back. Another swish of a blade and another agonized scream. Her eyes, clouded with pain, met mine as she fell forward once again.

Restrained and in too much pain to focus, I could only watch helplessly as the remaining Judicator cut away the chains with which Morgana had bound her final remaining pair of wings. Delirious from pain and weak from blood loss, she could only whimper as the blade severed the last of her wings.

"Cast down, and now the Veiled One shall be purified!"

A blinding light washed over the battlefield, and the weight on my back lifted just enough for me to crane my neck. A seraph in golden armor slowly descended, wings outstretched and a gleaming sword in each hand. A thousand pinpricks of light radiated around the figure, each one forming into a sword of pure radiance. As the arcane blades screamed towards the earth, I watched Kayle bring her twin blades up over her right shoulder and swung them diagonally across her body.

I could only avert my gaze as an arc of golden light screamed towards me.

* * *

**A/N:** So another thing I like to do is a recommended listening list. Typically it's whatever song I was listening to while writing the chapter.

Prologue: The Elder One Theme (Dragon Age: Inquisition OST)


	2. Chapter One: Arrival in Demacia

**Disclaimer:** _League of Legends_ is property of its respective owners.

**Chapter One: Arrival in Demacia**

**Two Years Prior**

I tugged uncomfortably at my robe's collar as I stepped off the boarding ramp. Demacia was chilly this time of year, but I had grown accustomed to the cold of the Freljord, so the ornamented purple-and-gold robes of an Institute of War Summoner only made me feel uncomfortably hot. I longed for the much more comfortable travel clothing in my luggage, but Institute policy said the robes stayed on until I left the airport. There was a thin silver lining in that the Demacian border guards seemed that much more inclined to quickly wave me through when I wore the robes. A pleasant breeze from higher up the ramp took the edge off the discomfort.

"It has been a pleasure, Summoner..." an ethereal voice spoke from behind.

"Pleasure was all mine, Janna," I turned around to look the wind spirit in the eye, "Though I do wish I knew why the senior Summoners were so vague about who I'm supposed to meet with. Some sort of...witch in the woods?"

Janna's expression darkened for a split second, her lips pressed into a thin line, before she returned to her normal serene self. As Champion to one of the highest-ranked Summoners in the Institute, I had no doubt that she knew more about this 'witch in the woods' than she was willing to tell me. I simply shrugged my shoulders: compared to some of the other Champions, a magic user who valued her privacy ranked quite low on the list of unusual things. Though why a practicing mage would choose to settle in _Demacia_ of all places was quite beyond me.

"Doesn't matter either way. Either I form a contract or I spend another couple months in the Freljord standing around looking scary," I grinned as I pulled my hood up.

That earned me a brief giggle. In theory, the Institute's Freljord outpost monitored the vast demilitarized zone that was the Ice Sea, its formidable shore batteries and contingent of Summoners serving as a silent threat to any warships foolish enough to try and pass through unauthorized. In practice, the Sea was frozen over six months out of the year and both Demacia and Noxus had far more pressing concerns than fighting over a near-totally unnavigable waterway. Even the outpost's tourist center—I still wonder who thought it was a good idea to build a _tourist center_ in the _Freljord—_had seen more use than the gun battery, having played host to a state visit from Queen Ashe during my time there.

The censer hanging at Janna's waist jingled as she planted her staff and floated down so that her feet just barely touched the ground, opening her arms expectantly. I saw several of the Institute soldiers milling about the hangar turn their heads to watch, but I paid them no mind as I hugged the wind spirit.

"Good luck with the League," I nodded as we let go, "I'll see if I can catch a broadcast."

* * *

Stepping through the door that separated the Institute-managed and Demacian-managed portions of the airport was a jarring transition. From the utilitarian architecture and uniformed soldiers that the Institute preferred to vaulted ceilings and armored knights. Airship travel was still extremely new outside of Piltover and Zaun, so it was quite possible that the Institute airship I had arrived in was the only arrival in the past few weeks. My robes stuck out amongst the more subdued Demacian fashions, and I felt dozens of pairs of eyes on me as I walked past. Adults gave me wide berth, and children hid behind their parents. Even the normally-stoic soldiers seemed a little jittery: as well-trained as they were, there was little they could do against the world-shattering powers of a Summoner.

"Papers?" a middle-aged border guard asked me with the faux boredom that hid nervousness.

I slid my travel documents, the enormous Institute of War seals prominently displayed, towards him.

"Reason for visit?" the man asked as he pretended to review my papers.

"Tourism."

I suppose that wasn't a _complete_ lie.

"Length of stay?" the border guard stamped the documents with a little more force than strictly necessary.

"Two weeks at most."

"Everything seems to be in order. Please enjoy your stay."

Several nearby Demacians seemed unusually engrossed in the latest edition of the _Demacian Constant _as I moved past the checkpoint. I had no doubt at least a few of them were undercover magehunters. There was an unspoken agreement between them and the Institute: so long as I refrained from any overt displays of magic, the magehunters were content to watch from a distance.

I allowed myself to relax and my posture to slouch as I approached the main concourse. My final destination was so far out of the way that the Institute had chartered a private carriage. It wasn't scheduled to arrive for a few more hours, so I would have to tolerate the robes for that much longer. In the meantime, there was a restaurant serving Shuriman food that had received rave reviews from the other Summoners.

* * *

**Three Days Later**

The magehunters tailed the carriage for a surprisingly long time after we left the walled cities and well-patrolled roads of central Demacia behind, only giving up two days into my journey. Their mandates and authority meant little in the small farming villages of the Demacian frontier, and overly-zealous magehunters tended to "go missing."

Nevertheless, I carefully hid anything identifying me as a Summoner whenever we stopped. The Fifth Rune War had only ended five years ago, and the memory of its final day was still fresh in many minds. I still attracted some attention; it was virtually impossible not to, being the first outsider many of these villages had seen in months, and an Ionian to boot. Even out here, everybody knew of Xin Zhao, but few knew anything of the Seneschal's homeland. Tales of my home province and news from beyond Demacia's borders spent every bit as well as the gold I bought with me.

The first leg of my trip ended when the roads did, leaving me in a tiny farming hamlet of less than one hundred people. Consisting of a single street, a handful of cottages, and a seldom-used guest bedroom in the mayor's house that doubled as an inn. I left most of my remaining gold with them, though the coin paled in comparison to the parcel of medicinal herbs and potion reagents and the stack of days-old newspapers I also bought with me. A few small parlor tricks of the kind currently all the rage in Piltover—nothing actually magical, just a lot of misdirection and sleight-of-hand—and I both became the talk of the town and got the information I wanted.

The Winged Protector, I had heard of as far away as Ionia. Massive statues in Demacia's capital proclaimed a dozen tales of judgment carried out carried out with the stroke of a blade. I listened as closely as was polite, but what piqued my interest was the tale of the Veiled One. I had heard the title whispered in the Institute's halls, but only knew enough to know that early Demacia had gone through great pains to erase her from history: books and scrolls were burned and shrines torn down. Yet, some stories survived in the outskirts of Demacia. A shiver went up my spine as the village apothecary finished the tale of the cleric and his disobedient pupil. Part of me wondered what kind of judgment she would have in store for me.

I had spent much of the evening wondering how to casually bring up the "witch in the woods," and my efforts ironically proved for naught. One of the younger children eagerly volunteered the story. She was a little too young to be very articulate, though apparently this witch was "real pretty," "really nice," and "had these giant wings." I knew enough Vastayans that I found the last bit a little more believable than the girl's parents apparently did.

* * *

The clearing the little girl had described was just a brisk walk away from the hamlet. Far away enough that children had plenty of room to run around in the tall grass, but not so far that their parents lost sight of them. I could immediately sense a mage—and a powerful one at that—had passed through recently: magic residue, dark but not evil, was sprinkled over the entire area. It tasted of long-buried pain, quite different from the picture the little girl had painted. Left with no other choice, I closed my eyes and let the magic point me.

I walked for half a day before the trail ended. The woods grew steadily darker and more foreboding, the trees twisting together until they blocked the sunlight entirely. I drew my cloak closer, shivering slightly, and summoned an orb of light in my palm. My boot found something soft and hollow, and I bent over to inspect the object: a feather, too large to belong to any bird I had ever seen. I remembered tales of Lhotlan Vastaya who fought with razor-sharp feathers, and I focused some magical energy into my free hand just in case.

The feathers grew thicker, forming a trail through the woods, and I eventually came upon a small cave. The smell was overpowering, and a soft candlelight glowed deep within. There was no sound but the dripping of water from the ceiling, yet I felt _something_ beckon me inside. I took a deep breath, drawing forth more magic to weave a protective aegis around myself. Not enough to be threatening, but able to deflect a spell or two.

I dispelled my light and stepped inside.

* * *

**A/N:** I like to sometimes use author's notes to muse on this topics that I couldn't really cover in the main chapter. Probably will happen quite a bit early on, then taper off as we go along.

So I should probably address the elephant in the room: the League of Legends/the Institute of War. Obviously, Summoners and the Institute exist in this AU. The Institute's purpose, however, is a bit different than it was in the old canon. It's both stronger and weaker: this Institute is less a supreme governing body and more an international peacekeeping force not beholden to any one government. Besides the stated public mission, its secondary purpose is to keep the remaining Summoners out of trouble: the Institute keeps close tabs on them and provides an outlet for their powers. Quite a few champions are "on loan" from their respective homelands rather than directly pledged to the Institute of War—and a few aren't affiliated with the organization at all—though as the opening scene hinted, this Institute does have access to conventional forces to make up for it.

Now as for the League itself, rather than the central pillar of the Institute and a method of international arbitration, it is only one organ of this Institute. Think of it as a combination of training, ping-pong diplomacy with swords, and the Institute's PR department. Summoners get a chance to let loose a little and train alongside their champion (more on that later), participating nations get to show off their latest military advances, and selling the broadcast rights brings in a good chunk of the Institute's budget.

Anyhow, enough of my rambling. Next up: the first meeting!


	3. Chapter Two: The Veiled One

**Disclaimer:** _League of Legends_ is property of its respective owners.

**Chapter Two: The Veiled One**

Were it not for the oppressive atmosphere, I would have mistaken the cave for the storage room of a particularly eccentric Summoner. Candles were piled high upon shelves carved directly into the walls, and the wax was allowed to freely drip and flow onto the floor. More the ink-black feathers were scattered on the floor, forming a downy layer upon the hard stone. Bottles filled with unidentifiable liquids lined the walls further in, the cave extending into the pitch-blackness. It would have been effortless to conjure up another orb of light and fling it deeper inside until I saw how deep the cavern went, but all my instincts _screamed_ that it was very, _very_ bad idea.

The figure emerged from the shadows so quietly that I failed to notice it until it had settled down upon a stone perch. Barefoot and covered in a long black veil. I could make out no features save for a pair of purple lights roughly where I'd expect its eyes to be. I gulped and involuntarily stepped back. I had the power to shatter continents and annihilate armies, and yet I felt very small at the moment. I found myself unable to meet the figure's eyes, almost as though I were a child again and my teacher were chastising me for some misbehavior or another.

In the way the fabric shifted, I could sense the figure was tilting their head to the side, wordlessly telling me to say my piece. It took me several seconds to find my voice, and I stepped forward, hands spread out in front of me to show I meant no harm. This "witch in the woods" was proving quite different from the picture painted for me last night. I dispelled the magic around one hand as a show of good faith and slowly reached into the folds of my traveling robes. My hands closed around reassuring metal, and I drew out my Institute of War badge.

"I'm...I'm...uh..." I stuttered then chuckled nervously, running a hand through my hair, "Well, my real name's rather difficult to pronounce, so my friends just call me Johann."

There was a twitch roughly where I pictured the figure's hands were, but no spell was flung at me yet. I took it as a good sign to go on.

"Feel free to call me Johann," I bought the badge up to eye level, taking a few deep breaths to steady my heartbeat, "I'm here on behalf of the Institute of War, and..."

"I know of the Institute of War, and I don't care why _they_ want you here," a youthful voice tempered with a hard edge cut me off, "You're a Summoner, and an Ionian, too. The southern provinces, from your accent. An unusual combination, especially this far from your homeland. Tell me why are _you_ here."

"I...I...I..."

The rational part of my brain was already berating myself. I was a Summoner of the Institute of War! I fought in the Fifth Rune War, annihilated fleets and shattered armies with a thought! And here I was, stuttering like some schoolboy confessing to his crush! I was expecting to be thrown out at any moment, any chances at a contract lost.

"I grew up in the southern provinces. Small port city. One of the few links Ionia had to the outside world. Had a pretty normal childhood, all things considered," I chuckled nervously, mentally kicking myself again for babbling, "When they found I had some magic, they sent me off to the Summoner school at the capital. Peace and balance in all things…you know…standard Ionian fare."

The 'witch in the woods' had far more patience than most other magic users of her caliber. From the way one of the purple orbs expanded, I imagined she was raising an eyebrow under the veil.

"And yet you're here, wearing the badge of an Institute Summoner," the veiled figure interjected, voice much gentler this time, "You fought in the last Rune War, then?"

I froze for a moment. This line of questioning was dredging up memories, and not pleasant ones.

"I remember when Ionia's elders announced their nation's Summoners would _not_ get involved in that conflict even as hostile armies encroached on their borders. Surely you did not seek out a mythical being of judgment just to confess that you defied your elders' wishes?"

I could only shake my head frantically, my voice once again gone.

"It was...it was more than just defiance," I admitted after a long moment, staring down at my feet, "We petitioned that the elders allow us to intervene..."

Images of that day rose unbidden. Dozens of us, dressed up in the robes of our respective Orders, accompanied by members of the Ionian resistance. The elder spoke at length, speaking of cooling heads and looking past the _now_ and instead at the _long-term_. I remember anger. I remember one of our number simply ripping the badges off his robes and throwing them to the elders' feet, angrily proclaiming that he'd not stand by as Noxians and Demacians slaughtered his fellow Ionians. That he'd fight, with or without the elders' approval. I remember following suit, joining the others as we stormed out of the chambers.

Suddenly, that nervousness was gone. That great weight on my chest vanished. Suddenly, I was just _angry_.

"The elders talked of _peace_ and _balance_!" I spat out those words as if they were the foulest of curses, "Lofty ideals as our fellow Ionians were being _slaughtered_! What did our talk of _peace_ get us? Noxian armies to the south, burning and pillaging all in their path! I stood in the smoldering wreckage of a village, surrounded by corpses…there were rumors that Demacia was about to intervene…Zaun had sold them some new weapon…a gas…the lucky ones died quickly… Just one village of _many_, and the elders would've had us stand back and do _nothing_!" 

I was shouting now, and I simply _didn't care_.

"The Noxians ripped through us…the provincial armies were used to fighting bandits and Vastayan raiding parties, not professional soldiers! We'd not fought a war in _generations!_ When a Demacian fleet sailed through the Ice Sea to land on our western shores, King Jarvan talked of 'guaranteeing our freedom' and 'liberating our land from the Noxian aggressors'," I put on my best impression of the Demacian monarch's voice, "_All lies_! All they wanted were Ionia's ports, so they could challenge the Noxian fleet in the Guardian's Sea! Not _once_ did the Demacian army fight Noxus. They just marched towards our capital, looting whatever they needed to keep moving and burning what they couldn't take with them! But the _great_ and _noble_ Demacia couldn't be seen destroying innocent villages, so conveniently everyone old enough to carry a sword became an 'armed Ionian guerrilla'!"

I remembered the day I stood upon the beaches staring down the disembarking reinforcements. At great cost, the Ionian resistance finally managed to stall the eastward advance, allowing the Demacian army to overextend before cutting their supply lines. Even that hard-won victory was snatched away from us as another fleet laden with fresh troops appeared over the horizon. We had hastily set up, allowing the first wave to land and engage a paltry force of sand golems. We allowed them to begin their advance inland before we struck. Fire rained from the skies, burning hundreds alive. The sands ran red with blood. We didn't stop there, conjuring up great storms and gale-force winds to swamp the ships further out to sea. I remembered Demacian soldiers spilling off the decks, flailing in the water as their heavy armor weighed them down. We could have helped them, but we simply turned our backs to them. They had shown the Ionian people no mercy, so we returned the favor.

"And _balance_?! You can see the results of our dedication to that right above the skies of Ionia! In our nation's darkest hour, when we could least afford it: an entire monastery destroyed, and a citadel of dark magic raised into the sky! We should count ourselves lucky we didn't create a _third_ power wanting Ionian blood!"

The Institute had provided the young but powerful mage with proper instruction in the end. Yet it would not bring back the lives lost when the monastery collapsed, or those lost when forces that should have been delaying the invaders were instead sent to investigate the rubble and later lost in a failed attempt to subdue the Dark Sovereign. Yet another failing I heaped at the feet of _peace_ and _balance_.

My throat ached, my heart pounded, and my head buzzed. All my fire had vanished, and I was just _tired_. The veiled figure before me hadn't moved throughout my entire rant, and I suddenly found myself staring back at my feet self-consciously. Whatever minuscule chance I had before was certainly gone now.

"I remember the Rune Wars. All of them," the figure announced after a long while, "You defied your elders and took up your sword in defense of innocents. There is no sin in that. No, your sin is the lack of _judgement_. Your elders preached restraint because they saw what you would unleash. In a matter of months, you shattered the Demacian expeditionary force and bogged Noxus' invasion down in a grinding war of attrition. The two nations grew desperate, seeking whatever advantage they could, and the involvement of Ionian Summoners had opened floodgates that could never be closed again."

The ethereal chains crept up on me, and I noticed them only too late. They shot towards me, wrapping themselves around my limbs. In a better state of mind, I could have easily shattered them. Now, I could only stare at them in shock. The veiled figure slowly stood up and stepped towards me.

"And in that desperation, they made the same mistakes they made so many times before. On that last day, the skies rained fire and the rivers boiled. The earth itself shattered. The very veil of reality tore open and innumerable ravenous horrors flooded through. Whatever Summoners they had were unleashed with a single order: destroy the enemy, or be destroyed. And once those first spells were cast, much less than nothing holding the other nations back, they were _forced_ to respond to the escalation, lest they appear vulnerable."

I found myself struggling weakly against the chains as the figured placed a hand on my chest.

"You are not the first of the Institute to approach me. Nor, I suspect, shall you be the last. If you wish that I become your Champion, you shall pay the same price I have demanded of any other. You must fully understand the folly of your actions, the futility of the Rune Wars, the full breadth of suffering caused."

A burning sensation slowly crept up the chains, starting at the merely scalding and quickly growing to become unbearably hot. Yet, I remained rooted in place. The feathers beneath my feet burned with dark arcane flame that lapped at my shins.

"Should you endure this lesson," the veiled figure hissed, "My power is yours."

Those two purple orbs seemed to glow brighter as they narrowed into an angry expression.

"Prepare yourself, for _you too shall be judged!_"

I heard screaming. It took minutes before I realized it was my own.


	4. Chapter Three: The Fallen

**Disclaimer:** _League of Legends_ is property of its respective owners.

**Chapter Three: The Fallen**

A million memories swirled around me, shards of a million existences cut short, of a million cries for help. I was a soldier huddled in a foxhole as fire and brimstone rained from the skies. I was a parent holding their children close as the ground beneath them tumbled away. Bio-acid burned my flesh and Void-infused spikes skewered me for a ravenous four-armed monstrosity to enjoy at its leisure. I struggled for breath as great waves buried my home and battered me back underwater every time I surfaced. The very earth shook and I knew not _why_, only that I could do nothing about it. I felt all the fear, the pain, the hopelessness of the Rune War's final day.

"Do not mistake my methods for mercy," a massive figure looming over me boomed, "_Death_ is mercy. You shall _earn_ your absolution!"

* * *

I awoke laying on something soft, and I could see two pinpricks of purple light floating above me. I reached up towards them, only for some unseen force to gently push my hands back down. I blinked several times to refocus my vision. A beautiful angel hovered above me, and I was sure I was dead up until the pain hit me. Every inch of my skin felt like it was on fire and my head felt like it had split in two. The scream died in my throat, reduced to a faint gurgle. I felt a damp cloth be placed on my cracked lips, and I suckled greedily at the moisture.

"Hush, save your strength," a hypnotic voice soothed "I admit I underestimated how quickly you'd break the restraints."

Through the painful haze, I remembered shattering the ethereal chains with a shockwave of magic. I remembered sinking to the ground, uncaring as the arcane flame ate through my robes and licked at my flesh. I remembered the veiled figure kneeling down beside me, any sense of detachment discarded, as I clawed at my flesh and beat my head against the stone; anything at all to make the pain stop. I remembered a pair of slim arms wrapping around me, a heaven-sent cooling touch against my burning flesh, to protect my head as I thrashed about.

That explained the pain, at least. I was just coherent enough to glance down. My outer robes were gone, no doubt damaged beyond repair, and clean bandages were wrapped tightly around my upper body. The sharp smell of antiseptic and painkilling balm assaulted my nose, and I nearly passed out again from the shock. I gathered most of my remaining magic into one hand and prepared a healing spell when a small but surprisingly strong hand squeezed my wrist until I released the half-formed spell.

"None of that now," a finger pressed my lips shut as I prepared to object, "Summoner or no, your body is still human. Rest tonight. Heal yourself in the morning."

Her voice left no room for argument, and my eyelids slowly drooped shut.

* * *

Morning bought a fresh bout of agony, and I bit down on my tongue as I forced myself into a sitting position. It was mid-morning by now, judging by the sunlight streaming in the nearby window, and I took a few seconds to take in my surroundings. The simple yet comfortable surroundings starkly contrasted with the dim and forbidding cave from yesterday. The furniture was spartan: a bed, a shelf, and a table. It was all simple yet clearly handmade with great care.

I flexed my fingers experimentally and tried to summon a wisp of power. Even the normally-trivial action sent a renewed jolt of pain up my air. Every nerve in my arm burned, but I held on and began shaping the magic. Just as the pain became unbearable, I released the build-up power and a green wave of magic washed over me. My wounds briefly reopened as torn flesh stitched itself back together, and I inhaled sharply between my teeth as the pain died down to a dull ache. I was far from in any condition to fight, but I would be well enough for the trip back.

I slowly made my way through the cozy-but-not-cramped cottage, leaning against the wall for support. Despite my best efforts, my footfalls were loud and uneven, my bad knee choosing now of all times to act up again. The cottage was small enough that I just followed the humming, and the heavenly smell of buttered dough reached my nose as I drew closer.

"Pigheaded, even for a Summoner," the witch sighed, turning around as I gingerly staggered into the cozy and surprisingly well-equipped kitchen, "Sit. Eat. I suppose you'll want to leave as soon as possible?"

Looking at the witch from behind, my eyes were immediately drawn to her wings. A single massive pair were attached to her lower back, while a second smaller pair curled around her shoulders to form a high collar. What I initially thought was a tail turned out to be a third pair of wings bound in heavy chains. I was beginning to reconsider the whole Vastaya theory. Granted, I had only seen two Lhotlan Vastaya before, both as drawings on wanted posters.

"Does that mean you'll come with me back to the Institute, uh..." I rasped then trailed off.

"Oh, where are my manners?" the witch chuckled as she turned around, "I have your name. I suppose it's only fair you get mine in return."

She looked a little bit younger than I expected, seemingly four or five years younger than myself, though appearances could be deceiving when mages were concerned. A slim figure, unnaturally pale skin, and dark hair that matched her feathers. I was drawn to her eyes: they glowed purple even in the sunlight, framed by what looked like tear-streaked makeup but was clearly part of her skin after a second's inspection.

"Morgana, born in a time where commoners did not have last names," she curtsied.

Yep, appearances definitely deceiving. I realized a second later that I was still staring. If she noticed, she didn't say anything.

"Jin Zhihao," I slowly stood up and bowed, "But please just call me Johann. A pleasure."

I somehow managed to lower myself back into the seat before the newfound strength in my legs gave out.

"To answer your question, Johann: yes, I agree to your contract," my mouth watered as Morgana set two plates and a loaf of fresh-baked bread on the table, "But first, eat, regain your strength."

* * *

"A _tourist center_," Morgana deadpanned, raising a curious eyebrow, "In the _Freljord_."

"We got that one a lot," I shrugged, helping myself to another slice of bread, "It was the first outpost the Institute ever built, so I doubt it was to use up leftover budget, either."

We both carefully avoided acknowledging _why_ the Institute rushed to build that particular outpost.

* * *

**Six Days Later**

The trip back to the hamlet took significantly longer, my still-healing injuries forcing us to frequently stop for rest. My companion's slim frame hid a surprising amount of strength, as I quickly discovered. We slipped back into the settlement in the late evening, after most of the citizens had gone to bed, to find the carriage already waiting. The extra stops added nearly two extra days to the ride back to Demacia's capital, though the company made the trip infinitely more tolerable.

Morgana was a walking contradiction. Young in body but ancient in mind. A being of both harsh judgment and gentle nurture. Calm and quietly dignified during some times, yet surprisingly childish and sharp-tongued during others.

We spoke at length about whatever topics struck our fancies and traded stories. My teachers back in Ionia would have paid any price to learn of the first Rune Wars and the early history of modern Valoran from one who had witnessed it all, and I would not squander the opportunity. Our return to the Institute would be marked by a whirlwind of training and ceremony and rituals, and then we would be thrown wherever peacekeepers were needed with little time for rest.

The magehunters resumed their surveillance almost exactly where they left off. They almost certainly detected a second source of magic alongside me, and our tail was accordingly more numerous and better-armed. We both steadfastly ignored their presence.

"Anything you wish to declare?"

"No."

The magehunters had clearly warned the airport's security detachment ahead of time. The number of otherwise-inconspicuous Demacians unusually engrossed in the most recent _Demacian Constant_ had increased, and the guards were patrolling in pairs and in heavier kits than last time. My Institute-issued travel documents would have covered a prospective Champion as well, but it was ultimately proving easier to let the Demacians think I had picked up a second Summoner at some point in my journey. Let their intelligence community scramble around for a couple months chasing a nonexistent leak.

"Everything seems to be in order," the border guard practically slammed the stamp down, "We hope you enjoyed your stay."

Morgana's robes rustled around the hips and shoulders, and I could tell from the way her lips were pressed into a thin line that her current outfit was far from comfortable. I pulled my hood back just enough that my sympathetic expression was visible before dropping it again.

"The airship's not scheduled to arrive for another few hours," I received an annoyed growl for an answer, "Tell you what, I'll make it up to you. There's this Shuriman place on the concourse. Their kibbeh is _amazing._ My treat?"

**A/N:** Back to the Institute at last in the next chapter!

So, something that'll probably come up a few times is the power disparity between Zhihao/Johann and Morgana. The short version is that, in terms of magical ability, Summoner wins, hands down. I imagine him as fairly middling for a Summoner, which still means he can hit about as hard as a nation's nuclear arsenal. At the same time, as we saw in the prologue and in the start of this chapter, he's still a squishy human underneath it all. For all he can fortify his defenses with magic, he'll die just as easily as any other human if caught off-guard or if those defenses are somehow pierced.

As for Morgana, I go 50-50 between Riot's statements and using my own headcanon to fill in the gaps. Since their mother's power is split between her and Kayle, she won't have as much raw Aspect power as, say, Taric or Pantheon, but she's also far more in control of it and has more experience with it. Relative to the other Champions, I'd also put her and Kayle somewhere in the middle. Enough to give even an army a hard time unless they come with specialized training and equipment, but they can still be killed to death faced with enough firepower. At the same time, her body isn't as fragile as Johann's. Creating an avatar is an investment, and Justice will want to protect its investments.

As for how the blessed blades in the intro could cut Morgana's wings? Something her lore says is supposed to be nearly impossible? Well, that is something for another day.


	5. Chapter Four: Meeting of the Avatars

**Disclaimer:** _League of Legends_ is property of its respective owners.

**Chapter Four: Meeting of the Avatars**

Located in the vast no man's land between Demacia and Noxus, the Institute of War was an imposing complex built directly into a mountain range. The Fields of Justice were built atop the largest peak, but even that massive structure was dwarfed by the complex buried directly into the mountain below it. The airship hangar, as one of the most recent additions, was located in one of the range's outermost peaks.

"Welcome to the Institute of War," I turned to face my companion, "Impressive, yes?"

After we boarded, Morgana could not get rid of the Summoner's robes fast enough, much to some of the guards' poorly-concealed amusement. Compared to the simple dresses of rough homespun fabric she had worn in Demacia, her current attire was quite a bit more...daring. Dark purple fabric trimmed with black fur that hugged her figure in a manner that turned quite a few heads as she walked past. The dress was backless, allowing her wings to move freely, with a plunging neckline that accentuated her ample bosom. The skirt was slit up to mid-thigh, exposing shapely alabaster legs. Yet the iron chains that bound her third pair of wings remained.

"Very," Morgana admitted, "I suppose the Summoners had a hand in building it? This would have taken many lifetimes otherwise."

I nodded in the affirmative as the airship began its final approach. The night was clear and cloudless, and I could see the spotlights shining from the Fields of Justice—signaling that the festivities had yet to conclude—even at such a great distance. I was a little annoyed that I couldn't keep my promise to Janna and catch a broadcast: even with little more than pride on the line and on what essentially amounted to a massive sparring circle, watching some of the Institute's most elite Summoners and their Champions in action was a spectacular sight.

* * *

Unease crept up my spine as the boarding ramp dropped, and I found myself sharing a sidelong glance with Morgana before pulling my hood up. The airship guards seemed more nervous than usual, many of them flipping their helmets closed and gripping their weapons more tightly. My posture reflexively stiffened as I glanced down the ramp to see a massive man clad in bronze armor. His face-concealing helmet left only a pair of glowing red eyes visible, and the massive spear and shield set off alarms in my head even though they were strapped securely to his back.

Pantheon, a literal avatar of War. There was nothing wrong with his presence _per se_, but he had never shown any interest in the Institute of War beyond the occasional piece of intel on Targon's enemies or spar on the Fields of Justice. I don't know why he was _here_ of all places, and I let some magic bubble to the surface as the two of us descended the ramp. He seemed to notice, but his weapons remained stowed: an encouraging sign.

"Much as I would relish the chance to battle a Summoner, I do not come to fight today," the armored warrior laughed harshly.

I sensed he wasn't looking at me anymore, and I unconsciously shuffled forward to put myself between him and everyone else. In such close quarters, there truthfully wasn't much I could do if he suddenly decided he _did_ come to fight, but I could at least weather an assault long enough for more senior Summoners to respond.

"So the missing child returns at last," red eyes locked gazes with purple, "A sword suits you far better."

The hairs on the back of my head stood up as the temperature in the hangar seemed to drop several degrees. I could sense the buildup of magic behind me as Morgana visibly bristled.

"I left it behind a long time ago," she hissed, "Rejected it and everything it stood for."

"One does not simply _reject_ such gifts," Pantheon's tone was that of one scolding an unruly child, "You _will_ accept your birthright one day, Morgana."

I looked between the two confusedly, and apparently not as subtly as I had thought, considering the armored warrior turned to face me again.

"Oho, your face says it all," the avatar barked, "You still don't know who your so-called 'Champion' is?"

I was briefly knocked off-balance as Morgana pushed past me, features twisted into a snarl and sparks of dark magic arcing from her clawed fingers. That seemed to flip a switch in the hangar guards' minds, as they hurriedly slammed their helmets shut and readied their weapons.

"Good. You have lost none of that fire," Pantheon laughed, clearly feeling more amused than threatened, "You need not worry. Your secrets are yours to tell, though I do recommend you address them soon. The first bond between Summoner and Champion is one of _trust_, after all."

With that, the armored warrior strode past the two dozen armed guards without so much as acknowledging their existence and out through the hangar doors. With a mighty leap, he arced through the air and disappeared beneath the mists.

The hangar stood still for several seconds, with even the ground crews pausing to process what they just witnessed. I briefly wondered if I would need to intervene, but the hangar guard lieutenant slowly lowered their rifle. The other guards followed suit, and motion gradually returned to the surroundings.

Morgana seemed to deflate, all that fire dissipating to be replaced with exhaustion. Her back slumped and her hair fell down over her face to obscure her eyes. She slowly turned around, and I could tell from the way her wings subtly twitched that she was weighing what to say next. I lowered my hood and put on my best attempt at a disarming smile.

"Don't worry too much about him. Pantheon's a dick," one of the nearby guards was struck by a suspiciously-long coughing fit, "Trust me, _nobody_ at the Institute particularly likes him."

That last part wasn't a lie, at least. While many at the Institute respected the avatar of War, it was for his formidable martial skills rather than is less-than-charming personality. At the same time, I couldn't deny that his words got me thinking.

"I'm sure you're tired from the journey," I picked up our paltry luggage and offered my free arm, "Why don't I walk you to the guest wing? We can probably squeeze in a quick tour on the way over."

The corners of her lips curled into a grateful smile as she took the offered arm.

* * *

**Two Hours Later**

While the Institute never truly slept, there was not much to see between the airship hangars and the guest wings so late at night. The guard barracks, a tucked-away eatery or two, and the less-sensitive libraries. Anything actually important was at the heart of the Institute, buried in the mountain beneath the Fields of Justice. After bidding Morgana a good night, I had plenty of time to think as I wandered the Institute's near-empty halls. There was no rush, so I took the long route to my destination and stopped to greet the occasional passing Summoner or Champion.

The brief exchange with Panetheon had left me with many questions and no answers. Despite its brevity, his description of the bond between Summoner and Champion was completely correct. The contract was a union of minds that allowed two to act as one, and in exchange the Champion was granted access to the Summoner's vast reserves of magical power. Finding Morgana was the easy part; building up enough trust to successfully form a contract will be the hard part.

Throughout our journey, she had freely spoke of the events she had witnessed but remained coy on what she was doing during them. I had initially shrugged it off: every Champion had secrets, and the fact didn't always hinder their ability to contract with a Summoner. The revelation that Morgana and the Veiled One were one and the same—no doubt a fact the senior Summoners were aware of before sending me to find her—together with Pantheon's declarations was forming a picture I wasn't liking. _Nothing_ involving Targon was _ever_ simple.

My final destination was a tiny library tucked into the heart of the Institute of War, my target an ancient and supposedly-lost tome. The Institute's libraries were full of other volumes fitting that description, but what made _this_ particular leatherbound tome unique was its alleged final resting place: the Crownguard Family library located in High Silvermere. I had no idea how it wound up in the Institute's possession, and I suspected it would be rather unhealthy for my to try and find out. Under the watchful gaze of the library's armed guards, I took my prize to the sole reading table and gently blew the dust off the aged leather. The book was small but quite thick, and I turned it over in my hands a few times before running my fingertips over the brass nameplate.

_Canticle of the Winged Sisters_

* * *

**A/N:** So today's topic will be the relationship between the Institute and the avatars of Targon. The short version is: it's complicated. Every avatar has their own motivations for working (or not working) with the League, and the extent of their allegiance depends from avatar to avatar.

Pantheon, as we saw, has a loose give-and-take with the League. He can fight on the Fields of Justice and the Institute passes him some choice intel in exchange for not sticking his spear in the Institute's business. He comes and goes as he pleases, and the Institute looks the other way whenever he flouts their security perimeter. He's middling in terms of commitment to the League, I would say.

Diana and Leona are a little more attached to the Institute, but are still largely doing their own thing. They lend their powers to the Institute in exchange for protection and access to Institute forces. This decision has led to some tensions with the Solari, though neither side wishes to press the issue. Irrelevant AU note: neither has been seen at the Institute for some time now. The last Institute members to see them were a squad of gate guards who remarked that the pair left in a great hurry, whispering to one another about some world-shattering truth they discovered regarding the Targonian faith. The Institute has suppressed this information for obvious reasons.

Taric and Soraka represent one extreme of the scale. Both are full Champions of the Institute, complete with a contracted Summoner. Their reasons are their own, but both coordinate the Institute's outreach efforts. They travel to some of the areas of Valoran hardest-hit by the Rune Wars to help ease some of the suffering, and the Institute has invested significant resources supporting these efforts. Soraka additionally serves on the Institute's New Horizon task force, a first-in last-out elite team sent in to contain Void incursions. And yes, there is a second such squad code-named 'Brightburn.'

Zoe is the other extreme. She doesn't particularly care for the Institute, and as valuable as her hints and messages can be, the havoc she wrecks in their wake is the cause of many a headache for the senior Summoners.

And Aurelian Sol doesn't care about the affairs of petty mortals.


	6. Chapter Five: Life at the Institute

**Disclaimer:** _League of Legends_ is property of its respective owners.

**Chapter Five: Life at the Institute**

"Focus, Morgana. Your minds are one. His eyes are your eyes."

The exercise was a basic one I had gone through hundreds of times before, though an uninformed passerby would probably scratch their head in confusion. Morgana and I knelt facing one another roughly a meter apart on the straw mats. She was blindfolded, the cloth wrapped around her eyes several times to ensure not even a sliver of light leaked through, and rested her hands on her lap. My vision was unobstructed, and I held my hands out before me with a certain number of fingers extended.

"Keep your mind open, Hao. Just let her in."

I had almost completely lowered my mental defenses, an action that required far more conscious effort that one would think. I felt a light touch brush against the edges of my mind, and I swung those gates open. Even getting to this point had taken nearly a week. Our instructor, a senior Summoner hailing from Shurima, paced a circle around us observing our progress. He was the same Summoner that bought me to the Institute, and one of the few I considered a friend.

"Four fingers?" she hesitantly answered after several moments.

"Excellent," our instructor nodded, "You can take the blindfold off now. That's enough for this morning."

"So," I asked while offering a hand to help Morgana up, "Who's up for whatever slop the cafeteria is trying to pass off as food?"

* * *

Afternoons for an aspiring Champion were packed with endless classes: mastering Institute procedures and regulations and learning the intricacies of the Treaty of Valoran that both empowered and yoked the Institute of War. My afternoons saw me return to my duties. Every Summoner in my department had a different favorite answer when asked; I personally preferred saying I worked in logistics, specifically coordinating food shipments between the Institute's outposts: it simultaneously gave me reason to travel all over the continent while being just boring enough that nobody asked awkward questions. My real job, in comparison, was usually only minimally more exciting.

"I take it my suggested reading was..._enlightening_, was it not?" a sultry voice underscored with a faint hiss came from just over my shoulder.

I practically jumped, clutching my current reading—a report on the delicate balance of power in the Freljord that was proving every bit as dry as it was long—to my chest in an effort to calm my pounding heart. I whirled around to look the owner in the eye. More accurately, into the Piltover-made sunglasses that shielded me from her petrifying gaze. Considering her family, I shouldn't be so surprised that she could move so quietly. Painted lips were curled into a wry smile as she awaited my response.

"It is," I nodded after a long while, "Though I'm only halfway through it right now."

Nobody outside of the senior Summoners knew what price the Institute paid for Cassiopeia Du Coteau's services, though I could make an educated guess: a king's ransom in gold, the opportunity to turn the entirety of Valoran into her personal playground as head of the Institute's Intelligence and Counter-Espionage unit, and a place where her serpentine features were seen as alluringly exotic rather than repulsive. I'm also told that she was the center of the Institute's gossip network and semi-anonymously penned a surprisingly-insightful relationship advice column in the _Journal of Justice_, though I had never been in a position to test either claim.

"No matter," Cassiopeia's armlets clinked together as she waved dismissively, "You have weeks yet, though I do need to talk to you about your next assignment."

That set off a few alarm bells.

"Come," she beckoned while slithering down the hallway, "There's been a development with those sacked Demacian caravans..."

* * *

**Three Weeks Later**

"Relax. Breathe. You're not opening up, not letting anything in. You're just _reaching out_."

Morgana and I were once again kneeling upon the straw mats, though both of us were blindfolded this time. I unnecessarily closed my eyes and took a deep breath, holding it for several seconds before exhaling out through my nose. I repeated it a few more times until my heartbeat slowed, and then I simply _reached out_. I extended a mental tendril forward, reaching for the mass of magic before me.

"_Good_," our instructor whispered, "Now, clasp the hand in front of you."

An awkward but accurate-enough metaphor, all things considered. I didn't so much as _see_ Morgana as I _felt_ her presence. A wisp of magic infused with the smoky taste of long-suppressed pain. I simply _reached_ towards it and curled myself around it. As that happened, I felt the wisp curl around me and melt into me.

I was suddenly in two places at once. Two sets of senses, two sets of memories. It was all quite overwhelming.

"Careful now. You're not used to this much input. The crystal orbs have always borne the brunt of it, but you're not going to have one going forward," the Shuriman Summoner lectured.

* * *

"Another caravan's been hit?" I asked unnecessarily as I skimmed the report in front of me.

Normally, the caravan raids would be considered an internal Demacian matter worthy only of passive Institute surveillance. That changed with the latest report.

"I'm officially moving you onto this matter full-time," Cassiopeia announced, adjusting her coiled tail that she had taken to using in place of a chair, "Your other assignments will be transferred or suspended for the time being."

The tip of her tail grabbed another folder and pushed it across the desk towards me.

"Petricite?" I whispered under my breath as I scanned the contents.

"They're trying to keep it all suppressed for now, but their investigators have found _nothing_. I suspect they will request an official Institute investigation soon. All out of the public eye, of course."

Petricite was the center of Demacia's military strategy and the nation's single most well-guarded resource. Even the tiniest splinter was exhaustively logged and tracked, and the stuff was only moved under _extremely_ heavy guard. For the Demacian military to lose track of _any_ was simply _unthinkable_.

"I know you're still preparing for your First Summoning. Give it all due haste. I estimate they will make the request no later than two to three months from now."

* * *

**Six Weeks Later**

"Good. Deep breaths. Don't think about it. Just mirror each other's movements."

Forming the link had become near second-nature by this point. Syncing our thoughts and filtering the sensory input was as natural as breathing. Now, we learned to _act_. The exercises began easily enough: lifting the same arm at the same time, walking the same path while separated by a curtain. They grew more creative as time went on: she took me through an ancient Demacian waltz—I suspected my Shuriman friend chose that one specifically because I _hated_ dancing, and I plotted revenge accordingly—and I guided her through a basic Ionian combat form.

This exercise was the most elaborate yet: some basic wood golems of the type used on the Fields of Justice surrounded the two of us as we stood back-to-back. Simultaneously an exercise of trust and ability. Our instructor randomly ordered them to attack, and they were close enough that we had just over a second to find the attacker and retaliate.

I felt a tug on the link, and I whirled around while forming a ball of magic in my hand. I flung it towards the charging golem just as Morgana launched a needle of dark magic at it. Both struck home, sending the construct sprawling to the ground. Without giving us even a moment to recover, another one jumped in with blunted axe raised high.

They steadily came at us faster and faster with increasingly complex attack patterns. They attacked in twos and threes, going high and low and from different directions. Staff-wielding golems would try and take potshots at us, and we took turns shielding the both of us. The bolts weren't powerful enough to do any real harm, but the electric shock and resulting numbness served as effective deterrent from letting any through. Even our breathing and heartbeats fell in sync as both raced from the exertion.

I had sparred on the Fields of Justice long enough to recognize the heavy footfalls and massive hammer of a so-called "super minion." The only warning of what was the come was a smirk crossing our instructor's face a split second before all the golems attacked at once.

The now-familiar hexagonal segments of Morgana's shield formed around us, shattering in an instant from the sheer fury of bombardment. Mine was already raised by the time it collapsed, and hers reformed as the spellfire punched through my barrier. There was little time to think: I conjured up a dozen magical spheres and flung them at the nearest golems, sending them flying back. One of the heavier golems charged forward, only to be stopped dead in its tracks as Morgana hurled an orb of dark magic at it with a flourish. Several of the staff-wielding constructs reverted back to inert wooden dolls as Morgana covered the mats beneath their feet in a layer of arcane fire.

A squad of hammer-wielding golems, a dozen in all, charged at us with shields lowered. The two of us acted as one, and I stood briefly mesmerized as Morgana rose into the air with a shout. Her wings fully extended as she flung the chains wrapped around her third pair as through they weight nothing. Dark magic coated them as they split into a dozen smaller chains that pierced the hearts of the charging golems. Their spring slowed to a crawl as Morgana gathered all the now-ethereal chains with one clawed hand and bought the bunch up to chest level. A second later, she yanked the chains back out, freezing the constructs in place as I raised a hand. The stricken golems were lifted into the air and promptly crashed back down onto the mats as I released my grip.

The dark magic faded as the chains turned back to ordinary iron and resecured her wings. A shame. The winged Morgana was mesmerizingly beautiful.

A nervous giggle and a light punch to my upper arm reminded me that the link was still active and that I thought that last bit out loud.

* * *

"We've received an official request from the Demacian court," Cassiopeia slid the seal-encrusted paper across the desk towards me.

Predictably, King Jarvan requested utmost discretion from the Institute. I briefly wondered how he'd react if he knew that he had requested help from a Du Coteau. Probably a rage-induced heart attack.

"Be careful. The senior Summoners have requested you _by name_. They're even pushing off next week's goodwill visit to Demacia until you've completed your First Summoning."

_That_ was never good.

* * *

**Two Weeks Later**

The current exercise was not _strictly_ part of the Institute's curriculum, but it was something I had done during my training back in Ionia. Plus, it was a bit more fun than most of the officially-prescribed exercises. Morgana stood on the mat, feet shoulder-width apart and arms hanging at her sides with the now-familiar blindfold wrapped tightly over her eyes. I quietly circled her.

"This is something I used to do back in Ionia," I explained, "It'll be good practice if we ever do get into a real fight, though."

I mentally reached out and clasped the proffered psychic probe. I felt myself melt into the wisp of magic even as I absorbed it, and a now-familiar presence settled into my mind.

"I'm going to attack you. Defend yourself to the best of your ability. The point isn't to take me down but to use the link to predict my attacks."

I will admit, I was rather curious. Ionian mages received some martial arts training, but I knew we were unusual in that regard. I circled a few more times before transferring my weight to the balls of my feet. I watched her hands curl into fists for a brief moment before relaxing again. I nodded in approval and circled a few more times before I raised my arms and jumped in.

It happened so fast that I was already held in a triangle choke by the time I realized what had happened. My vision swam slightly as I replayed the last few seconds in my head. Morgana had ducked under my initial attack and launched herself forward to knock me off-balance as she attempted to sweep my closer leg out from under me. She didn't put quite enough force behind the sweep, however, and I took advantage of that to bring us both to the ground. Which bought me to my current situation.

"I'm not much of a fighter," Morgana sheepishly admitted as I slapped the mat in submission, "But they did insist I at least know the basics."

"Good to know," I gasped out as her leg released its hold.

The relief was replaced by the feeling of impending doom as I heard the doors swing open and an annoyingly-bubbly voice filter through.

"And here we have the training rooms, where..."

Luxanna Crownguard. Officially, she was a goodwill ambassador from Demacia to the Institute of War attached to a disaster relief team. The Crownguard family hoped that the assignment would teach her discpline, and she was definitely not magical in any way. In reality, she was sent to the Institute in hopes of avoiding a scandal and was the leader of Task Force Brightburn. How a team consisting of a secret Demacian mage, a Yordle with a giant hammer, _another_ Yordle with a fae spirit companion, a wind spirit, a ludicrously well-armed Zaunite criminal, and their respective Summoners managed to accomplish _anything_, much less fight off some of the most dangerous Void creatures ever recorded, was rather beyond me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lux pause, glance between the two of us, grin in a manner I could only describe as _shit-eating_, and rush out to intercept the approaching dignitaries.

"My apologies, it turns out that this one is undergoing some unscheduled repairs. If you'll follow me across the hallway, we'll have an identical set of training rooms I can show you."

As Lux's voice and the accompanying footsteps slowly faded into the distance, I was reminded of my current position by an unnecessarily-loud throat-clearing.

"My, my, you're quite forward for an Ionian," the corners of Morgana's lips curled upwards, "Aren't you supposed to start by presenting me with a button from your robes?"

I sprang backwards with enough speed that the back of my head nearly collided with the mats. The pain of landing hard on my tailbone nearly canceled out that of the blood all rushing to my face. I started stammering out something about how it was _one_ province off Ionia's eastern coast and that it was a tradition practiced by _schoolchildren_.

* * *

**A/N:** Probably shouldn't be a surprise what I was listening to when I wrote the obligatory training montage scene.

Forming the Mental Link: Pacific Rim Main Theme (Ramin Djawadi)


	7. Chapter Six: The First Summoning

**Disclaimer:** _League of Legends_ is property of its respective owners.

**Chapter Six: The First Summoning**

The day before my First Summoning was a weekend, and it was then that I decided to bite the bullet and delve into the Institute's gossip network. I shivered just thinking those words, but there was approximately zero chance that Lux hadn't gone and blabbed despite the lack of ribbing from other Summoners or Champions. Even my exceedingly-tiny circle of friends, who never passed up _any_ chance to give one another some good-natured teasing, had said nothing.

The place, the person, and the price were not recorded anywhere, but word of mouth ensured the entire Institute knew. And so I made the long trek from my quarters to the only good bar to be found at the Institute and another equally-long trek to the largest greenhouse. A wave of heat washed over me as I entered, and I almost immediately started sweating. I found her exactly where I was told I would: basking on a large flat rock under several heat lamps, her tail coiled around her favorite pillow. I perched myself at the edge of the rock, placed my offering within arm's reach, and waited.

I heard the clinking of metal and long nails scraping across rock as hands closed around my payment. A high-pitched giggle, a surprisingly-dexterous tail slapping a hand, a brief protest before acquiescence. Cassiopeia held the long-stemmed glass of Noxian wine between her fingers, her tail constricting around her lover's torso as she used the tip of her tail to hold the other wineglass up to his lips. I knew of her reputation back in Noxus, but I was still having a hard time reconciling this Cassiopeia with the stony-faced and dutiful head of Intelligence. I supposed the Noxian aristocracy would have a similarly hard time: the same Cassiopeia Du Coteau who was never seen on the same arm two nights in a row, who left a long trail of broken hearts and jealous suitors in her wake, currently in a years-long relationship with—of all people—a lowborn assassin.

"Just go for it," she announced after several sips of wine.

"That...wasn't what I wanted to ask..." I muttered.

"It's the answer you needed to hear, though," the lamia countered as she laid back on her coiled tail, "But if you want to be boring and ask _that_: yes, but nobody believes you'd have it in you to be _that_ daring."

I was torn between relief and annoyance.

"I almost feel bad charging you my normal rate. You want my advice? _Be direct_. You flout so many other Ionian traditions, but somehow, you're even _more_ reserved when it comes to courtship," Cassiopeia shook her head in amusement as she leaned forward to lie prone on the rock, "She's older than most _nations_, Johann; she's probably seen it all at this point. You could dance around for months and figure out some grand gesture, or you could just go up to her after your First Summoning and ask her to have a drink with you. I'll even tell you where you can get a nice bouquet of Noxian Reds if you _really_ want to go all-out."

The gears in my head seized up.

"This isn't Ionia. This is hardly even Valoran. There's a _reason_ the Institute's rules around these sorts of things have always been as lenient as they are. Or did you already forget that Blitzcrank's dating service was shut down because of unauthorized use of teleporter pads rather than, say, matching Champions with Summoners?"

I'm still not completely sure if the Fleshling Compatibility Service was real or just an elaborate hazing ritual by the older members of the Institute. The name 'Pairing Eligibility Reactor of Valoran" seemed a bit _too_ self-parodying.

"So," I threw myself backwards onto the rock, "Where can I get those Noxian Reds?"

* * *

I took a deep breath as I stared at the chamber doors. A First Summoning was a small but solemn ceremony, an affirmation and test of the magical contract that bound Summoner and Champion. I made a few final adjustments to my ceremonial Institute of War robes and pushed the double doors open.

The chamber within was dark, but I strode ahead already know what to expect. Back straight, eyes ahead, and hands bunched into fists to hide the nervous shaking. I had already memorized the chamber's layout, which saved my shins from the low stone table at the chamber's center. The focus crystal embedded into the dark volcanic rock glowed faintly as I knelt down before the table. I had the easy part for now.

I stared ahead at the double doors across the chamber. The aspiring Champion underwent one final trial before the First Summoning: the Judgement. I wasn't privy to the specifics, but I knew it was a magical scouring at the hands of the senior Summoners. A test of motivation, and if an aspirant failed, the stone doors would remain closed.

A bead of sweat dripped down my brow, but I dared not reach up and wipe it.

Minutes passed, and I found myself wondering if all our previous efforts were for naught.

The doors slowly creaked open, and I could see Morgana silhouetted in the doorway. Even the dim torchlight in the corridor beyond was near-blinding compared to the chamber's darkness, and I had to avert my gaze. The Institute's armorers had done a fantastic job on such short nice: her dress was replaced with a close-fitting ceremonial curiass, the curved plates at her hips holding up a royal blue skirt. I wasn't sure if the armorers had slit the skirt to her hip on their own volition or if she had convinced them somehow. A thin metal sheath covered the leading edges of her wings, and a delicate metal headpiece rested on her brow.

Grey-robed senior Summoners filed in after her, forming a ring around us as she knelt down opposite from me. A soft blue glow slowly lit up the room as the senior Summoners conjured orbs of pure magic, each the size of the crystal orbs used by uncontracted Summoners. In the low light, I spotted a few of the Summoners I had befriended—our instructor among them—standing at the back of the chamber.

"Let us begin," one of the senior Summoners announced.

Our link formed in an instant, and a familiar presence settled into my mind. Unlike the dozens or even hundreds of other times we had done this before, however, our bond was immediately seized by an unfathomably-powerful tide of magic. The senior Summoners chanted in an ancient language, using their magic to reinforce the link and weave protections into it. The enormity of this moment started to sink in: there was no turning back now. The link could be ignored, even suppressed, but once we left this chamber, there was little hope of ever truly severing it.

There was sudden clarity as I felt the floor of reality drop out from under me. The walls that protected the last recesses of my mind melted away. I felt myself pulled in a thousand different directions at once as all sense of self melted away. I was standing before the Ionian elders once again as they pronounced my exile. I was walking through an ancient forest, my twin sister at my side, uncaring of any danger that may have lurked in the dark. It was a difficult sensation to describe, but I _felt_ that smoky taste draw closer. I could practically grasp it, but I instead subconsciously shied away. I _felt_ some ethereal presence stop my retreat, thin fingers wrapping themselves around my forearm. I _knew_ that both of us were magically paralyzed for this part of the ritual, but I _saw_ Morgana shake her head, tightening her grip on my arm and she beckoned me forward.

I reached forward for that smoky taste, and suddenly I was standing in the streets of a burning city. Spears of fire rained from the skies, punching through the shields I hastily put up and leaving great carnage in their wake. I felt my fingers close around a familiar sword grip as I looked up at a golden seraph. Blades of pure radiance screamed through the air towards me, and I launched ethereal chains to intercept and shatter them.

"_Kayle!_" I roared, blade raised as I took flight.

"_Morgana!_"

The clanging of blade meeting blade, of armor colliding against flesh. I parried, slashed, and stabbed. Great arcs of magic accompanied each swing of the blade, yet none of our attacks touched one another. I heard a horribly-familiar cry of pain and anguish as our blades met for the final time. I cast my sword away and dove for the source of the scream as my dumbstruck opponent floated down after me.

"_Is this what you wanted, Kayle?_" I demanded through choked sobs as I cradled the old man's head, "_Our __own__ father! __Did his sins deserve death?_"

I received no answers from my sister. I saw her mutely pick up my discarded sword, spread her wings, and take for the heavens.

The sound of another voice pulled me out of the memory. The paralyzing spell had lifted, and I paused to wipe away the tear currently streaming down my face. I noticed Morgana mirror my action.

"The link is formed," the senior Summoner continued, unaware of the memory just shared, "The First Summoning will now commence."

I put my hands out before me, forming some magic into a glowing blue orb roughly twice as large as my closed fists. My hands swirled around the orb as I forced more and more magic through it. The arcane energies pooled into a blank block of marble, and I felt Morgana's smaller hands upon mine—even though she had not moved even once from her current position—as we began to shape the magic.

There was a Summoning pad off to my left, the magic woven into it glowing brightly against the mundane stone that surrounded it. A glowing blue beam descended from the ceiling and settled upon the enchanted stone, the soft light slowly coalescing into solid form. With a bright flash, a magical facsimile of Morgana materialized and stepped off the pad. The copy stood before the Summoners and slowly bought her arms up, balling her right hand into a fist before covering it with her open palm. Not-Morgana bent slightly at the waist in a traditional Ionian salute before dissolving back into the raw magic that composed her form.

"The First Summoning is complete," the senior Summoner announced as he presented each of us with a more elaborate Institute of War badge, "Congratulations."

* * *

**Four Hours Later**

Despite their name, Noxian Reds were actually purple. I held a modest bouquet of them in my hands as I made a few final adjustments to my robes. They were significantly less stifling than my formal Institute robes but still presentable. Taking a deep breath, I swung my door open and strode out into the corridor before I could convince myself to abandon this harebrained scheme. At least, that what I would have done had I not taken a single step to find myself staring into a pair of glowing purple eyes. Literally, as their owner only stood an inch or two shorter than me.

"What?" I squeaked out, instantly seizing the award for Most Intelligent Comment of the Day.

"You left your side of the link open," Morgana uncharacteristically giggled, "And you've been thinking rather loudly for the past two hours."

"Uh...I…" I stammered, immediately dethroning my previous title as what courage I mustered up abandoned me.

"Oh no, this is _not_ one of those cheesy Ionian graphic novels," the mage growled as I took a step back, "You planned a direct attack, and now is the time to follow through."

"I...what?" I'm fairly sure my voice pitch climbed even higher as I flawlessly defended my title.

"I'm told there's exactly _one_ good bar at the entire Institute, and I don't intend to sample it alone," she smiled as she took the bouquet, tucking one of the flowers behind her left ear before putting the rest on my little-used doorside table.

"Uh..." I could probably go for the all-Valoran Championship title by the time my brain rebooted.

I had just enough presence of mind to close and lock the door to my quarters as Morgana took my arm and led the two of us down the corridor.

* * *

**A/N:** The link between Summoner and Champion is trippy, no? I couldn't find much lore surrounding what exactly the link entailed, only that there was one, so I took a few liberties with the details.

For some reason, I found Blitzcrank's dating service too hilarious to _not_ mention at least once. And, yes, I did indeed try and work in Morgana's Victorious skin. It looked pretty ceremonial to me, so I figured it would fit this instance.

There probably will be other lighter chapters going forward, but the main plot itself will be pretty serious overall.


	8. Chapter Seven: Assignment

**Disclaimer:** _League of Legends_ is property of its respective owners.

**Chapter Seven: Assignment**

Breakfast the next day was at an Ionian-style tea house I was rather fond of. I was released from my normal duties in preparation for departure to Demacia, and neither of us were particularly keen on facing the Institute's gossip circle. Nothing steamy had happened: a few shared drinks and a leisurely stroll through one of the Institute's gardens before parting ways at the entrance to the Champions' dormitories. Convincing people of that would have about the same chance of success as taking on the entire Void by myself, and I had little doubt that my circle of friends would make sure I heard some of the funnier rumors before I left.

The place was nearly empty this early in the morning, which suited both myself and Morgana just fine. The calming aroma of fresh-brewed tea filled the air as we perused the orders delivered to our quarters at some point the previous night. They were only a handful of pages long—more detailed orders would be unsealed when en route to Demacia—and only covered the basics: investigation timeframe and scope, available resources, and special considerations. Neither of us spoke as we scanned the documents, and any needed communication could be handled over the link. It would take a long time before the two of us were used to having it always active, and every little bit of practice helped.

_I best prepare to meet with the other Champions_, alarm bells were going off in my head as I looked up to see the laughter in Morgana's eyes and the barely-noticeable smirk on her lips.

"_There_ you are!" a familiar voice announced triumphantly.

_No! Don't leave me here alone!_ I futilely begged as she left a handful of gold pieces on the table and stood up.

"Soooo..." one of my eyes twitched at the sight of the new arrival's shit-eating grin, "I heard some rather _interesting_ rumors this morning..."

The resulting _smack_ of my forehead meeting the table drew brief stares from the patrons and staff, but I was beyond caring right now.

This was going to be a _long_ morning.

* * *

Though I had heard stories even in Ionia, I had never seen an airship until the Institute recruited me. For all their seeming simplicity, it took a literal army to keep even one flying, and the Institute had _three_ of them. The chance to watch the one I would be traveling on be prepared for takeoff was the perfect excuse to extricate myself from the increasingly-uncomfortable interrogation. From the observation platform, I watched as the hangar crew dragged massive fuel lines and laden supply trolleys across the floor.

I made a pointed effort to _not_ look as she sidled next to me, her expression that of a cat that had caught the canary. We stayed that way for several minutes, watching as the people below attached lines to the airship and began to slowly guide it out of the hangar.

_That_, I thought, _was _not_ funny_.

_You're regularly up against the might of _nations, she mentally riposted, _and a little gossip is enough to send you running?_

Huh. I suppose she had a point there, and...was she preening herself? I spared a glance to my right.

_Left your end of the link open again_, the corners of Morgana's lips curled upwards as she flicked my forehead.

_So, which one was your favorite?_ I raised an amused eyebrow in an attempt to change the subject.

_Hm,_ she audibly hummed while rubbing her chin in thought, _Probably the one where I'm an angelic being from a parallel plane who's planning to use your power to wage war against a tyrannical government._

I burst out laughing at that one, drawing confused stares from the passerby.

_Let me guess_, I finally forced air back into my lungs, _From the same Summoner who insists that Jax fights with a lamppost to protest some obscure League regulation?_

_The very one_, she giggled.

_Well, mine's boring compared to _that, I paused a moment for dramatic effect, _There's one going around that bringing you to the Institute was part of a cover-up for an arranged marriage to end the war between Ionia and the Lhotlan Vastaya._

_I'm not so sure_, Morgana buried her face in her hands to stifle the laughter, _That one's actually _impressive_ in how many things it gets wrong._

_I guess you're right_, I shrugged, _Even _if _there was a chance a plan like that could work, we wouldn't be allowed anywhere _near_ it._

Between the Lhotlan Vastaya's lack of anything resembling a unified government and Ionian culture's lack of anything the nations of Valoran would recognize as a formal marriage, it was a rather big "if."

"We should probably meet with the others," I announced after several minutes' comfortable silence as the airship finally slipped out of the hangar.

* * *

"Summoner Liu, Captain Xan" I greeted, fist to palm and bowing at the waist.

"Summoner Jin, Champion Morgana," Summoner and Champion returned the greeting before returning to their preparations.

I had only fought alongside them a handful of times during the Fifth Rune War, but there was hardly an Ionian alive who did not know of Xan Irelia and her Summoner Liu Yaling. As the rest of us hesitated for lack of the elders' approval, Yaling quietly left the capital to join the growing resistance. While we followed in the invasion's wake, offering aid that was both too little and too late, Irelia lopped off a Noxian general's arm at the Navori Placidium. When we finally resolved to intervene, approval or no, the two had formed a contract and began the grueling task of driving Noxus back into the sea. When the elders exiled them after the war, many others followed in protest.

The other three Summoners and their respective Champions, I knew only by appearance and reputation. A severe-looking dark-skinned man wielding two massive sidearms and his equally hard-faced Summoner who I recognized from the few mission reports that trickled out of the Shadow Isles outpost. A pair of hextech-augmented women of indeterminate age, one of them walking on blades instead of feet, whose implants and prostheses cost more than I would see in a hundred lifetimes. A young blue-haired woman who "spoke" through her etwahl, each note pulsing with barely-contained power, and yet her Summoner seemed to understand every word without using their link.

I turned to meet Morgana's gaze, and I knew in an instant that we were both thinking the same thing: we were an untried team, and they were some of the Institute's heavy-hitters. The alarms going off in our heads only grew louder and shriller. Those alarms were promptly drowned out by the heavy synchronized footfalls of a full three squads of Institute soldiers boarding the airship.

* * *

Even after traveling on quite a few of them, I was always surprised how quiet airships were. The deckplates below my feet vibrated and there was a persistent low droning sound, but I could work through it just fine. It was quiet enough that I heard the soft knocking on the bulkhead door.

I opened the door and made a pointed effort to ignore the grin and thumbs-up from a passing soldier as I ushered Morgana inside. Her lips began forming an easygoing smile before my expression made it clear that I hadn't called to her for the company.

"Johann," she greeted, now all business.

I offered her the only chair in the room as I passed her the leather binder. It was thicker than the one we had received this morning, the contents detailing the specifics our assignment and giving a brief overview of what little evidence the Demacian authorities had gathered so far. A sharp intake of breath and the sound of a binder dropping to the desk told me all I needed to know.

The latest attack had happened so recently that Demacian authorities had not yet officially released a report to the Institute of War, and I decided it was better not to speculate how we got a copy. Intelligence had not even had enough time to fully review it, and handwritten notes were hastily scrawled into the margins. The caravan contents were nothing of note: a load of armor and weapons. No, what made the raid notable was the injury pattern of the dead guards: surgically-precise slashes by enchanted blade. The magic was of a particularly vicious variety: there was not a form of armor known to the Institute that could defend against it, and the surrounding flesh was flash-cooked by the heat.

If the implication weren't already clear, the physical evidence spoke volumes. I decided not to question how the Institute had acquired it to begin with, much less smuggle it out of Demacia on such short notice.

Numbly, Morgana turned the object over in her hands: a single feather, too large to be from any bird and white as fresh-fallen snow.

* * *

**A/N:** So this marks the end of what I would consider the "origin story." Things should start slowing down as the main plot gets underway. Don't really have a good estimate for how long this story's going to be, but I'd be surprised if it's significantly more than 40k to 50k words.

So just a brief musing today. From what I've gathered from the lore stories, Ionia does use the last name, first name naming order, so nice bit of attention to detail on Riot's part. I've adhered to that convention here.


	9. Chapter Eight: Into the Lion's Den

****Disclaimer:**** _League of Legends_ is property of its respective owners.

**Chapter Eight: Into the Lion's Den**

"Ten-_shun_!"

The low buzz of countless conversations began dying down as soon as our escort disembarked, the heavy synchronized footfalls of a dozen uniformed men and women drawing the undivided attention of the Demacian dignitaries filtering through the palace gates. The peacekeeper squad was a sight to behold: dark olive-green jackets work over white button-up collared shirts, close-fitting dress pants of a lighter shade of green, black dress shoes polished until they shone, and peaked caps. Some of the party-goers outright stopped to stare, their gazes split evenly between the immaculate uniforms and the rifles the Institute peacekeepers held. The sergeant's sharp command echoed through the courtyard, and I could see several of the nobles further inside turned to see what all the commotion was about. Twelve heels crashed against the ground followed by an equal number of rifle butts, all with millisecond precision. Several of the stone-faced Demacian guardians twitched uneasily but ultimately stayed at their posts.

_Aren't you glad I forced you to learn how to dance?_ Morgana silently laughed, painted lips curling upwards in a sly smile.

My lips pressed into a thin line in response, my grumbling dying in my throat. Camille and her Summoner were definitely the lucky ones: as the former's relationship to the Institute was completely under-the-table, her arrival was never officially announced. The pair had slipped into Demacia hours ago, taking advantage of all the nation's attentions being turned to the palace for the evening to do some investigating. I spared a glance at the other Champions and Summoners as they disembarked. The height difference between Sona and her Summoner meant she was practically hanging off his arm, though neither of their faces moved from a serene smile. Lucian and his Summoner had paired off with Yaling and Irelia, respectively. All four adopted identical humorless expressions, their eyes slowly scanning the attendees. Suppressing a sigh, I stood up and offered my arm. If it weren't for the company, this evening probably would wind up on the wrong side of barely tolerable. With present company, it threatened to become to _pleasant_ or—part of me dared hope—even _enjoyable_.

I briefly wondered if I thought the last bit aloud as the smile briefly turned into a full-blown grin as Morgana slipped her arm through mine.

_You're getting better at not leaving your end of the link open_, she reassured, _We'll work on your facial expressions later_.

* * *

If the whispers and snatches of conversation I overheard was anything to go by, our arrival had left exactly the impression we hoped for: the Institute of War was no longer the ragtag group of Summoners and Champions that fled to the mountains after the Fifth Rune War, and its peacekeeper squads were more than a disorganized rabble of refugees and exiles with access to a worrying amount of chemtech firearms. The peacekeepers we bought with us were released from their posts as soon as they had secured their weapons, and I spotted a small cluster of distinctive olive uniforms in the crowd. They were surrounded by a gaggle of minor nobles and Demacian officers who hung onto their every word as they recounted a skirmish in the Shuriman desert. No doubt one of Emperor Azir's near-weekly incursions towards the Institute outposts that always stopped just short of crossing the metaphorical red line.

A flute of champagne in each hand, I quietly wove between the crowds. My robes drew quite a few stares, but I was a completely unknown Summoner and thus largely went ignored beyond that. Irelia and her escort had seemingly disappeared entirely, though I did spot Lucian conversing with a minor noble and Sona silently giggling at at hopeful suitor's compliments. The two were far more familiar with the Demacian court and its many noble houses and had taken it upon themselves to give me a crash course in etiquette on the ride over so that I at least wouldn't make a complete fool of myself. I quickly ducked under a passing waiter's tray—and I was fairly sure that the "waiter" was a disguised magehunter—and dodged around a few officers, breathing a sigh of relief as the crowd finally parted to reveal my goal.

Morgana had perched herself on the edge of a fountain, keeping her wings out of the water with what I could only assume was rather impressive core strength. Her hands were folded primly on her lap, and her conversation partner sat a small distance away. Without the massive bulk of his distinctive armor and sword, it took me a few seconds to recognize Garen Crownguard. I couldn't recognize the woman with him, though the two seemed quite comfortable with one another if their physical closeness was anything to go by. I filed that observation away for later as I quietly approached the trio. What snippets of conversation I could catch flew over my head, though I understood just enough to guess that they were discussing the work of some ancient Demacian philosopher.

"Johann," Morgana offered me a pleasant smile as she gratefully accepted the champagne glass.

"Summoner Jin," Garen stood up and greeted, hand extended.

"Sword-Captain Crownguard," I bowed slightly in greeting and clasped the proffered hand.

I barely suppressed a wince as his grip threatened to crush my fingers, though I did sense a mental giggle over the link. I sent a flash of annoyance back over, and I couldn't stop from silently broadcasting my relief as the Shield-Captain of the Dauntless Vanguard released my hand.

* * *

"_You do know who that is, right?_" Morgana leaned in and whispered to me during a gap in her debate with the elder Crownguard sibling.

The sensation of her breath against my ear sent a shiver up my spine, but I successfully tamped it down and turned towards her with a curious expression on my face. She simply wiggled her shoulder towards Garen's mysterious date, and I briefly shifted my gaze to regard the woman. Her dress was cut in a manner that emphasized her athletic figure without appearing immodest, and I had originally pegged her for a soldier before noticing her hair was too long to be within regulations. She had clearly colored it, though in such a manner that I couldn't tell if her natural hair color were red, black, or neither. Now that Morgana pointed it out, there was something familiar about the woman's facial feat…

I nearly choked on my champagne in surprise when realization sank in.

My mind was split between processing the implications of the new revelations and wondering if the Institute gave Demacia's border guards perhaps a _bit_ too much credit. The two trains of thought warred for supremacy for several seconds before a trumpet blast derailed both.

"Presenting His Imperial Majesty Jarvan III," a courtier bellowed as he proceeded to recite the Demacian monarch's long list of titles.

The real party was about to begin.

* * *

A side benefit of the link, I was quickly starting to discover, was that matching pace with my dance partner was much easier than normal. We didn't need to trade words, just sensations and concepts. Most of the "talking," for lack of a better term, was my reciting the steps to myself with Morgana occasionally interrupting to correct me.

_Only two spins this time,_ I felt her middle wings shift slightly to keep my hands in place,_ then two lifts._

I had to admit that the spins were the most interesting part of our waltz, with only our link preventing me from receiving a mouthful of feathers. A deeply-buried part of me silently laughed at the prospect of her next dance partner avoiding her wings, and while Morgana's face remained passive, I did feel a playful swat across my shoulder despite her arms never moving.

Despite the magical aids, I'm quite surprised I somehow didn't mess up the surprisingly-intricate arm movements during the promenade.

_I'm pretty sure the Fields of Justice are more complicated than a simple waltz_, Morgana raised an eyebrow in amusement, _But you don't seem to have nearly as much trouble there._

I'm too busy watching my feet as we wove between the other dancers to formulate a proper reply, so I just send a flash of annoyance and an insistence that the Fields of Justice were infinitely simpler than a waltz.

* * *

I slipped away to a secluded balcony as soon as it was socially acceptable, ostensibly to get some fresh air. As soon as I breathed a sigh of relief, my peace and quiet was shattered by an approaching courier.

"Summoner Jin Zhihao?" the man asked.

"That's me," I nodded in response, and the courier immediately pulled a scroll from his pouch and offered it to me.

I plucked the scroll from his grip without one hand a pressed a handful of coins into his open palm with the other. The man silently bowed and left, though I waited several moments to ensure I was actually alone before breaking the seal.

The message was almost infuriatingly vague: a time, a place, a request to board the waiting carriage, and a conspicuous blank space where a signature would normally go. The only assurance I had that the sender did not intend to silently murder me, though it was rather substantial assurance, was the stamp at the bottom.

As unfamiliar as I was with the Demacian court, even I could recognize the seal of House Laurent.


	10. Chapter Nine: Meeting Fiora

******Disclaimer:****** _League of Legends_ is property of its respective owners.

**Chapter Nine: Meeting Fiora**

The carriage was comfortable, if a bit plain by the standards of a major noble house. Regardless, the cushions were clearly of high quality, and the whole interior was scrupulously clean in the manner of something bought out of storage for the occasion. The driver and the guard were impressively disciplined, their stony expressions not betraying even a hint of emotion as they loaded us in and set off.

_So...House Laurent...what do we know about them?_ Morgana arched a curious eyebrow, setting her identical invitation down.

I sank into the cushion slightly, racking my mind as I hummed in contemplation. A sudden _clack_ startled me out of my reverie as I sprang to my feet. Magic flared from my fingers, briefly illuminating the interior as I swept the interior for the source of the noise. The light dissipated as thin fingers came to a rest on my forearm, and my gaze swept downwards to Morgana's sheepish expression and followed her other arm to the heels now haphazardly strewn on the carriage floor. They were a style coming into fashion all over Valoran, and while the heels were fairly modest in height, I still winced in sympathy.

"I don't know how _anyone_ wears these for so long," she whined as she stretched her legs out and wiggled her toes as though to check they were all still there.

I chuckled as I sat back down and earned myself a swat across the forearm.

_They're an old noble house_, I answered after several moment's silence, _Not on the same level as the Crownguards, but still one of the more powerful houses. The current head is Fiora de Laurent, youngest daughter of the previous lord._

Morgana's head tilted in curiosity, the unasked question hanging in the air.

_Demacian politics at its most brutal. She was to be wed to a minor member of House Crownguard. She rejected him at the altar, and Demacian law demanded House Laurent pay in blood,_ I scratched my chin, _I'm a bit hazy on what happened afterwards, truth be told. The end result, though, was the previous lord being executed in a duel with his youngest daughter, who became head of the house through an ancient Demacian law._

An unpleasant shadow passed over her features and vanished as suddenly as it came.

_As you can probably imagine, House Laurent has seen better days. Their holdings are still quite impressive, and their coffers have only increased, but it's all overshadowed by that scandal._

* * *

Fiora de Laurent was by no means an unattractive woman. Despite her house's near-fall, her ruthless political acumen and beauty bought a long line of suitors to her door. Stories of her brutal rejections were a source of great entertainment at the Institute of War, and one enterprising member had gone as far as to compile all the accounts and articles into a single volume. One of my earliest assignments with Institute Intelligence was to assist in tracking down and destroying the volume; we had given up after numerous confiscations only to find even more copies in circulation and simply made it policy to hide any copies when the Institute hosted visitors.

"Madam de Laurent," I bowed deeply, "To what do I o-"

"Come," the Grand Duelist growled in her distinctive accent, "We have little time, and none to waste."

She pivoted on her heel, crossing the foyer in a few long strides. I looked at Morgana, shrugged, and turned to follow her. The servants had retired to their quarters, and only a token guard force patrolled the corridors even during the daytime, so we had only the dim candlelight and the even clicking of Fiora's boots for company. Even the link had fallen silent; anything that needed to be said was said on the carriage ride over.

"Though here," Fiora slowly opened the heavy wooden door and ushered us inside, "I have instructed the staff to touch nothing."

The room had clearly not been used in a very long time, judging from the stale dusty air that assaulted my lungs as I cross the threshold. I coughed into my sleeve, struggling for breath as I conjured up a sphere of light in my free hand and tossed it down the length of the room. I tried and failed to suppress a low whistle as I scanned the space before me: the light traveled for at least thirty meters before finding the far wall, and I couldn't see the side walls at all. Rows of dark shapes that I could barely make out were rack upon rack of weapons from every corner of the world ran the length of the chamber.

_I sincerely doubt she called us all the way just to show off a trophy collection_, Morgana slid into the room behind me.

"This room has not been opened since..." Fiora's expression momentarily faltered, "This room has not been opened for a _very_ long time. I couldn't even _begin_ to tell you what could have been taken, Summoner Jin."

I scratched my chin, a feeling of _wrongness_ settling into my stomach as I set another few spheres of light throughout the room. I knew very little about Fiora de Laurent: what information the Institute had on her that wasn't otherwise publicly-accessible filled a few pages at most, and she had no ties—public or otherwise—to the organization outside of her friendship with the Grandmaster-at-Arms. Still, I knew enough about the proud duelist to know that she wouldn't call upon the Institute's Summoners for a simple break-in.

"I know this is not just a goodwill visit. You are here to investigate the recent caravan attacks, are you not?"

I suppose our silence was all the confirmation she needed. Fiora learned against the door frame, arms crossed and seemingly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

_There's only one entrance to this room_, Morgana gasped suddenly, and I turned to face her before we both pivoted to face Fiora, _And the only path here is a corridor straight to the foyer_.

_Which means the only other way in here…_ I craned my neck upwards to confirm my suspicions.

There was indeed a row of skylights, having gone previously unnoticed due to the new moon and the cloudy night, built into the vaulted ceiling. I quickly scanned down the row, located the missing skylight, and followed the line downwards to the floor below. Morgana was already several steps ahead of me, applying a minor hovering spell to her feet and silently gliding towards the broken glass.

* * *

_It's been cut_, Morgana motioned as she bent down, careful to not actually touch the shards.

I leaned in for a closer look. The edges were slightly warped, but the cut was clean and ruler-straight. There were two possibilities I could think of: chemical torch…

_Those are rare even in_ Piltover, Morgana interjected.

Which left only the second possibility: magic, and particularly vicious magic at that. Frankly, that possibility raised more questions than it answered. Small spells were fine, but a spell capable of cutting sheet glass would send every magehunter in the city running. _And_ there was still the question if how the thief got onto the roof in the first place.

A sharp intake of breath broke my concentration, and my gaze snapped to the source of the noise. Morgana silently floated towards the center of the broken glass, slowly bending down as though to pick up an object before she realized where she was. She hastily withdrew her hand, shaking her head several times to clear her thoughts.

The object had nearly gone unnoticed in the pale light. A downy feather, too large to be from any bird and white as fresh-fallen snow.

I shot back up to my feet, stumbling for a moment as all the blood rushed to my feet. I took a second to reorient myself and bounded towards the entrance. Fiora stepped away from the door frame, tilting her head and raising a curious eyebrow.

"Madam de Laurent," I bowed slightly, "With your permission, I would like to bring in a team...probably half a squad at most. The situation is...potentially quite complex."

"Do what you need to," she nodded, "The foyer should be large enough for your teleportation spell, no?"

I simply nodded, fishing out a communication orb with one hand and a teleport beacon with the other.

* * *

**A/N:** So more of my unsolicited musings about this AU. The way I see things, the Demacia in this universe is significantly more hardline when it comes to mages, since the Institute of War is practically on their doorstep. At the same time, the Institute is a bit of a pressure outlet valve, since it's a convenient place to send banished mages. It's a relationship built largely on tooth-clenched acceptance of one another. The Institute was founded to prevent the kind of nation-obliterating magic that was used during the Rune Wars never again sees the light of day, and Demacia recognizes that any assault on the Institute would only end in disaster even without the Summoners intervening. After all, the complex is high up in the mountains, and while the peacekeepers aren't as numerous as Noxus' armies or as well-trained as Demacia's, they make up for it with mass adoption of chemtech firearms.


End file.
